Archive for the ‘Zaum in England’ Category

For my birthday, my cousin (and fellow marathoner) Kate gave me the book Born to Run by Christopher McDougall. She had been telling me to read it for months as it discusses the art of running in its most natural form.

In very basic terms, the book is written by an American sports writer who goes in search of the ultimate runners – the Tarahumara Indians, a tribe in central America who run everywhere. It looks at what it takes to be a long distance runner and to be able to push your body through ridiculous physical feats such as ultra marathons and 100 mile trail runs.

This morning I finished one of the final chapters where they have just completed an obscenely difficult race through the heart of the Copper Canyons in Mexico and it brought tears to my eyes. Absolutely ridiculous – why on earth am I crying about running? Probably for the same reason that I get a bit teary when I finish a marathon – the feeling of completion, of having pushed your mind and body across a threshold that you’re not sure you can reach and the community spirit of people cheering you on as you do so.

I have been thinking a lot about my running style lately and have been trying to incorporate some of the physical and mental techniques mentioned in the book, and maybe it is just coincidental but I have cut my morning run time by 2 minutes. I had thought that three marathons would be enough, but I now know I have to sign up for another. Anyone want to join me?

Guess where I am, kids! Row M, position 1 of the reading room spiral at Manchester Central Library. My favourite room in the city has welcomed me back, providing me with ergonomically inferior seating in a deliciously silent setting.

I took this photo the other day. I have since moved.

Currently in my direct line of sight is the arse crack of a man who looks weirdly like Sir Pubert Gladstone (oh good, he just changed positions so my eye balls aren’t hurting quite so much), and earlier I was sitting opposite a guy who was eating away at the skin of all of his fingers. He had to occasionally mop up the blood he was discharging with a dirty tissue. The library attracts all sorts.

I have been in Manchester for over a week now and I am feeling surprisingly settled. It is much, much, much easier to move to a city that you are already familiar with and that is home to people you have already met. I don’t have to start from scratch this time and I know where to go to buy the best value avocados. I have been able to catch up with some of my friends and I am no longer having to whinge to Sir Pubert via text messages. Now he is just a £1 bus ride away and I can nag him in person.

I am living in an area called Victoria Park which sounds fancy and once was. It used to be home to some well known and well to do folk – Mr Charles Dickens used to come and visit on occasion. Of course, that was then and it definitely isn’t now. It is now home to a largely student population and people whose incomes will only let them afford to live in student-like housing. Loads of character and plenty of potential. The apartment that I am sharing is in a building called The Gables which I am certain must have some sort of interesting history. It is next to a pub called The Rampant Lion which has recently reopened as a hotel/pub/trying to be fancy Halal Italian restaurant/beer garden/coffee shop/downstairs Middle Eastern restaurant/take away food outlet. The building is nice, the garden is nice, the beer menu is terrible.

View from my apartment window looking at the back of the Rampant Lion

The last week has mostly involved attempting to register for university but discovering that it is harder than it looks, and so doing some writing work in the library instead. On the weekend, I made use of the Heritage Open Days and visited a few historically and culturally significant buildings that were open to the public for free. This included a trip to Halifax with Sir Pubert, continuing our tradition of weekend outings involving a picnic lunch.

My usual nosey nature has meant that I have been keeping a close eye on my fellow passengers and today’s winners are the young couple wearing matching humidifying masks. I have never seen these before and definitely wouldn’t have expected to see them on 20-something year olds. Apparently it is good to nuzzle one another while wearing them too. Ahhh… young love.

Retreat to a corner of the room, curl into a ball and consume all of the chocolate that I have in my house.

Vent in a public arena (eg. my blog) while drinking a soothing cup of tea and eating an almond biscuit. And chocolate.

While you may not want to hear about my woes, I feel I am making a wise decision and that by the time I have finished writing this soliloquy I will be less stressed, less frantic and able to move on with my life. Good plan.

Today is Monday. On Friday I leave England. That leaves Tuesday, Wednesday and Thursday to pack my life into small boxes, throw away half of what I own and repeatedly ask myself, “Do I really need this?” This morning I booked a courier, Parcel Hero, to collect two boxes that I am sending to Australia. This involved much swearing as the website continually sent me to the wrong page, a trip to the bank to cancel three payments that I hadn’t agreed to, and a terrible online chat service. While Parcel Hero was about £30 cheaper than any other courier company, part of me was thinking that maybe paying the extra for use of a website that wasn’t put together by monkeys would be a better option.

The courier man was then supposed to collect the boxes between 4-6pm this evening. At 3.15pm as I walked into my apartment, I received a call saying he was coming at 3.30pm. Good service except neither of my two boxes were sealed so the lucky guy got to stand around and watch me handle a frustrating roll of sticky tape.

And so half of my belongings have been rolled out the door and now I have to deal with everything else that I am either storing in Manchester or throwing away/donating to charity. Hence why I am now writing this and not doing that.

I have just said goodbye to three of my workmates who have become good friends over the last couple of years and tonight I am having a little farewell shindig. While I know I am coming back, I absolutely hate goodbyes and despise this part of my chosen flighty-lifestyle where every couple of years I pack up and leave the life I have built and the friends I have made. Things will change in the next few months and when I return people will be working in different places, they’ll have different friends, they may even be living in Australia. So my goodbyes this time are “I might see you in a few months”s. Or I might not.

My almond biscuit is no more and I have finished my cup of tea, so I had better get back to reality and do some more packing.

For Christmas, I bought Sir Pubert Gladstone a pasta maker. He eats an unusually large amount of the stuff and had mentioned his desire to own a machine so he could make his own. It was an obvious choice for a christmas present but his constant mentioning of this being on his ‘christmas wish list’ to every family member/friend/bearded man who asked was a little annoying considering I had already purchased one and no one needs multiple pasta machines.

Anyway, the purchase has resulted in our four attempts at ‘filled pasta’ – whether that be ravioli, tortellini or pastaloni as our non-traditional shapes would suggest. And clearly we have italian blood seeping through our bodies as we have managed to create some mighty fine pasta-pockets.

Ready to roll.

Our first attempt was on New Year’s Eve where we went for roast pumpkin, stilton and walnut ravioli with a sage button sauce, accompanied by parmesan roasted fennel. Holy guacamole, it was good eating.

There’s pumpkin in there. And cheese as well.

Sir Pubert then challenged me to create two different fillings as a ‘surprise’ for him (although I suspect it was just his way of tricking me into cooking for him) and I delivered a seriously good spinach and ricotta filling and one with mushrooms with thyme.

Dough pillows.

While the idea of making your own pasta seems somewhat time consuming at first, it is remarkably quick and easy to do. I think the Italians would agree that simplicity is key so there aren’t many ingredients to worry about. Plus it is much lighter and far more satisfying than buying the dried stuff from the supermarket – knowing you have kneaded the dough means you’ve already worked off most of the calories. More pasta for you!

It’s a wee bit chilly in Manchester. In fact, it’s really bloody cold. Over the weekend Manchester and beyond had a decent amount of snow – enough to be able to say, “It’s snowing!” without looking like an overexcited Australian.

Look at that snow!

On Saturday I headed to Yorkshire with my cousin Les where we took boring motorway routes and extra caution in order to avoid slippery roads and potential death. I really enjoy driving into snow, particularly at night, as the wind and forward movement of the car gives the snow a ‘speed tunnel’ effect and it appears as if you’re driving into some sort of time warp. If the snow was rainbow coloured it would have been particularly swinging 60s-esque.

The last two days have been beautiful – crisp blue skies and sunshine. Of course the lack of cloud coverage means temperatures are hovering around zero and my nose is a constant shade of beetroot. It did present the perfect conditions for a quick visit to Antony Gormley’s Another Placeinstallation at Crosby Beach yesterday.

Nice view.

Sir Pubert Gladstone’s dad was in town for a weekend visit and the three of us headed to Liverpool for a bit of culture. After a slightly disappointing wander around the Tate (clearly they keep all of the good stuff in London) and a deliciously cheesy lunch at the Docks, we headed to the beach to check out Antony’s Iron Men spread out down the coast. This is one of my favourite places in England and it was nice to be able to visit before I head back to Australia.

Over the past few months I have provided you with updates on my DIY adventures with Sir Pubert, his renovator’s delight townhouse and visits to B&Q. I have really enjoyed being involved in the renovation project – staining floors, installing flat pack kitchens, having arguments with customer service managers at IKEA, and painting more ‘white on white’ than you could possibly imagine.

This week I felt like Dale Kerrigan from The Castle. The pride he felt about digging a hole was on par to my personal delight in my attempt to rebuild a door frame.

Here was the problem – the new door was too small to fit the existing door frame, therefore pieces of timber needed to be cut to size and attached the original frame. Sounds simple enough except my lack of confidence in my measuring, cutting, drilling and screwing abilities meant that it seemed like a big deal. I like to say that I’m highly skilled with power tools, but the truth is closer to me being good at watching other people use them.

Anyway, having declared that it wouldn’t be my fault if I messed it up, I brought my Dad to the forefront of my brain and tried to think about what he would do in this situation. Measure twice, cut once. Achievable. Use the appropriate tool for the job. Not so much. However, through some sort of DIY miracle, I managed to measure, cut and install a new frame without requiring any second measurements, additional cuts OR having to buy an entirely new door frame. And that was even while using an inappropriate cutting tool, a blunt pencil and a drill with a dying battery. The two ‘handymen’ were hogging the good drill.

That’s a sexy frame.

It is the most beautiful door frame in the house and it now has a freshly painted door hanging from it. I’m very pleased with my efforts and feel I have learnt valuable skills. I have also recently learnt how to use calk and window sealant and how to force open a PVC window if the lock is broken. I also know that painting white walls/doors/skirting boards/door frames with more white paint is one of the most mind numbing jobs available. That must be why I always have to do it.

Did you know that one in every 50 to 100 million lobsters are born with ‘split cells’ – the cell in the egg splits in two and one half of the body is formed from one cell and the other half from the other. This means that half of the lobster can be bright orange and female while the other side is black and male. Pretty cool.

This is Sir Pubert Gladstone’s current ‘Favourite Fact’ and each time he tells his slightly exaggerated version I can’t help but feel somewhat connected with how these lobsters must feel. The left half wants to build a home, settle down, have friends over for dinner and make lots of lobster babies, while their crazy right side wants to explore the seabed, try new algae and see what’s happening on the other side of the ocean.

I have spent the last four years letting my ‘Crazy Right’ take control – moving to Paris, refusing to leave, and then deciding that a sojourn in Manchester was a better option than going home. My left side has accepted this right sided dominance by simply insisting on having a nice apartment to come back to and, lately, a form of employment (sort of). While I love the adventure and excitement of discovering new places, I don’t particularly enjoy change, I hate the unknown and I would really, really like to know what I am doing with my life. Ha.

A year or so ago, I was quite sure that my country hopping was coming to an end and that the sunshine and warmth of the great southern land was calling me home. Around this time I recall telling my friends that I thought I would be heading back to Australia but if they asked me again in six months time I would most likely be working out how to stay. How correct I was! As the end of my time in England drew dramatically closer and the more I thought about leaving, the more I wanted to chain myself to a lamp post outside the Manchester Town Hall.

And so I have spent the last few months working out how to stay or at least return in the near future. My only feasible option, that doesn’t involve breaking the law, is to become a student. Luckily, my extreme dissatisfaction with my current lack of career path and the fact that I don’t actually want to be a copywriter for the rest of my life (ooh, controversial) has meant that I have been contemplating a change of direction for some time (since about 2009 to be specific.). What appropriate timing! So I sent in an application to study at the University of Manchester and then sat back and waited to hear if I had been accepted.

And yesterday, I heard back.

Good news, kids – I, Jessica Davies, will be returning to Manchester in September to study a Masters in Art Gallery and Museum Studies. This is, of course, unless the UK Home Office comes up with some ridiculous new visa law preventing Australians from completing educations in England and paying exorbitant amounts of money to do so.

So the Socially Irresponsible Adventures of Jess continue. In this episode we will watch as Jess, having turned the ripe old age of 30, returns to university to start an entirely new line of career. Not only will she not have any money, she will also be even further away from the more acceptable life path of ‘husband/children/white picket fence/promotion to senior management’ that one would expect of a 30 year old. Her most valuable possession will be her suitcase and even that was given to her by her parents.

Now all I have to do is go back to Australia, wait for a few months, and come back to hang out with people half my age. I’m somewhat disappointed that I will not be allowed to complain about the influx of students in Manchester in September as I will be one of them. I will try and be less annoying though.

I am supposed to be doing work right now, but I have news that needs immediate discussion. This morning was the first time my library-buddy, Joe, and I have been working in the Central library together. As per usual, at 10.30am I headed to the library café to buy my morning coffee. Before departing, I asked Joe if he would like anything. A cheeky look spread across his face as he suggested we share one of the cakes on offer. I agreed.

Joe trusted my cake-selection abilities and so I chose the chocolate brownie, an item I had sampled thanks to some bite-sized tasters the café sometimes makes available, however I had never purchased an entire slice.

Holy moly.

Never would I have guessed that I would find one of the world’s best chocolate brownies in the café at the Manchester Central Library. It is rich, dark and gooey on the inside with a slight crunch on the outer layer. There are small pieces of walnut scattered throughout, breaking up the intensity of the chocolate.

Library brownie – served in a lovely cardboard box/plate/dish/thing

I am very, VERY picky when it comes to chocolate flavoured sweet goods and I never give praise unless it is deserved and this was bloody awesome. And so my first official work day of 2015 has been delicious. I haven’t done enough work, but finding a delicious brownie is a far better use of my time.

Somehow I have managed to make it to 7 January without writing a long reflective blog post about my past year and all that I have achieved/seen/done/visited/eaten. This is due to various factors:

I have been too busy.

I didn’t necessarily want 2015 to arrive quite so quickly so I am avoiding the subject.

I haven’t sat in front of my computer for the last seven days so haven’t had the opportunity.

Does anyone really want to read a pensive exploration of my past year or should I finally accept that I only write it to boost my own ego and to prove to myself that I haven’t wasted another 365 days being a lost soul pretending to be a writer but really just plodding along? Either way – here’s my year in hyper-speed and in no particular order.

In 2014, I…

Lost my Co-Op job (good start.)

Contemplated returning to Australia early and then realised that was a stupid idea.

Went to Sheffield many times.

Did a lot of baking.

Climbed a few mountains/hills.

Met a boy.

Had lots of picnics/outings/adventures with aforementioned boy.

Moved apartment and shared a house for the first time ever.

Became serious about this ‘copywriting’ bizzo and actually started doing it for realz.

Explored many great places in the UK, including Chester, the Peak District and Blackpool.

Went to Northern Ireland and learnt about the importance of tray bakes.

Ran a marathon in Manchester.

Ran a half marathon in Paris.

Got gastro.

Joined the wonder that is Yelp and had so much great food and drinks and met so many fun people that it made me giggle like a school girl.

Attended various weddings and half weddings.

Hugged my Dad.

Had lots of fun times with my fabulous friends.

Had one of the best food-filled, view-over-Manchester-with-a-cocktail-including, educational birthdays.

Discovered a lot about crisps thanks to various office mates.

Became addicted to pound stores and discount supermarkets. Seriously – I wander through at least one a day. You won’t believe the bargains!

Went to Scotland and the Edinburgh Festival.

Saw the Lochness Monster.

Witnessed worm charming, chicken racing and gravy wrestling.

Went to Old Trafford.

Discovered the joy of working in the Manchester Central Library. So quiet. So calming.

Decided I like Manchester too much and began the process of trying to stay.

So that was significantly more than I realised. I’m glad I decided to feed my ego.

I have 23 days left in the UK. That’s not a lot. Most of that will involve packing, crying, saying goodbye to people, and deciding whether or not I really need to keep all of my belongings. In between all of that, I also have plans to make the most of my time here and climb as many hills as possible. But right now I must do some of that copywriting do-dally.